


What is Love?

by KrazyKeke



Series: The Lost Tribe [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: America's history with those who are a part of a tri-soulbond isn't good, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Black Character(s), Black Family, Black Panther (2018) Spoilers, Black!Reader - Freeform, Erik is the reader's childhood friend, F/F, F/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Polyamory, Pre-Poly, Reader-Insert, Tri-soulbonds are rare, Violence, and coveted mostly for all the wrong reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:50:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14680185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrazyKeke/pseuds/KrazyKeke
Summary: Truth is everybody is going to hurt you: you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for. Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable. Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Life asked Death: why do people love me and hate you? Death responded, because you are a beautiful lie and I’m a painful truth.

Someone pokes your cheek and you swatted at them, agitated. Above head, someone giggles and your cheek is poked again. Eyes still closed stubbornly, you turn onto your right, only to bump up against someone’s thigh, and then to the left, only it’s the same problem with someone else’s thigh. 

“Wake up.” 

Arching your back, you dodge the fingers trying to tickle you and reluctantly sit up, “Okay, okay! I’m up!” Rubbing at the corners of your eyes, ridding it of sleep. Once you pulled the fist away, you caught sight of a beautiful sunrise and you’re sitting, having previously been laying down, on a hillside. 

“Do you like it? If you had slept any longer, you would have missed this. Lazy.” The person on the right, male or female is hard to tell here in the Dreamscape, but you’d been having them enough to determine that the individual is a male, most likely. Only boys are so…careless about physical boundaries, though he had never been rough with you like all the other stupid boys in your neighborhood or school.

“Leave it be! Not everyone is an early bird like you.” And the person on the left is probably, most likely, female. Sometimes you thought it was another boy with how rough the individual could be but then you remembered Ashayra, and she was a tomboy to the core, not interested in learning how to do what she dubbed as ‘girly’ things. Playing in the mud and beating up bigger boys in the playground was her idea of fun, and you’d heard your aunt sigh loudly more than once over that fact that she might as well have birthed another son instead of a daughter. 

“Y’all woke me up to see a sunrise?  _Really_?” Your voice can’t be more disbelieving if you’d tried. “…I’m goin’ back to bed.” 

“See!  _ **LAZY**_!” Again, you’re poked by the male and you swat at his hand. 

“You can’t fall asleep if you’re already asleep, then that’s like falling asleep twice! And you’ll be  _so_ sleepy when you get up.” In a lecturing voice, the girl reaches out and takes your hand. “…Please don’t. We don’t get to be around each other altogether like this often.” 

“…Fine, let’s watch the stupid sun.” You grumble, squeezing her hand comfortingly before jutting out your free hand for the boy to take which he did quickly and you had the impression that he was practically grinning ear to ear, and then the girl snorted, bumping her shoulder against yours.

Dorks, the both of them. But they’re your soulmates so you guessed you’d have to put up with their weird quirks and attitudes. As the sun started to rise higher and higher above the clouds, you raised a hand up, shielding your face.

Only to belatedly realize that you’re fading away like dust. 

“Bye, bye! See you next time!” “We will show you some ruins that are rumored to be haunted. It is so cool!”

Your voice can’t be used to respond in an affirmative because it’s gone now, followed by your nose, up to your eyes… It’s a strange sensation but you’re not in pain. When you blinked, you realized that you’re tangled up in the sheets of your twin mattress, the sun shining right on your cheek and your father is knocking on the door, he’s telling you to get up and get ready for school.

Exhaling explosively, you wish that school didn’t exist and you could have all the sleep in days you want, forever. Rubbing the back of your neck, you yawned, stretching. The  knocking picked up again and this time it’s your mother.

“Girl, if you don’t get out of that bed right now…”

“I’m up!  _I’m **UP**_!” You yell back, throwing the covers off of your body. Getting one foot out of bed, then the other, you walk over to the dresser squashed in the corner of your room. Pulling open one drawer, you pull out some clean clothes and underwear and bra, tucking it underneath your arm as you exit your room. Only you have to press yourself back against the bedroom door when a boy who looks identical to you skates by you in the hallway.

Yep, skates.

“Ma! Marcus is wearing skates in the house!” You a snitch but don’t care. “…And he in the bathroom, too.” 

“Jamarcus Anthony Winston III…”  You can hear her coming around the corner and smile smugly as the bathroom door opens and your brother pokes his head out, looking at you indignantly.

Your work here is done.

 **JUNE 12, 1991  
** **NORTHRIDE MIDDLE SCHOOL  
** **OAKLAND, CALIFORNIA**

Tapping your foot on the ground anxiously, the soles of your sneakers letting out a squeaking sound. Fingers twisting together and you bit your bottom lip. You glance up, only to see that Mr. Wickity look up from grading papers just then. 

Busted!

Hurriedly looking down again, your heart is going into overdrive when you hear him stand up from his seat. He walks over to your side, practically looming over you, “Are you finished writing your lines yet?”

Oh God, his breath. stank.

Fighting hard to avoid wrinkling your nose, you nod. “All fifty lines of ‘I will respect my teachers and people of authority’, right here. Yes, sir.” 

“I should make you write fifty more lines but I’m tired of seeing ya li’l smart aleck self in my class. Go.” 

Gathering up your supplies and stuffing it into your bookbag, you slung it over your shoulders, all but running to get to the classroom and away from Dragon Breath. Twisting the knob and giving it a little push because the door had a bit of a jam in it and needed replacing, once it swung open, you half turn your head, screaming, “Eat a mint!” Over your shoulder. 

The door slammed shut and you were hoofing it down the long hallway, running past the janitor and throwing open the school’s double doors to F R E E D O M. Rays of sunshine hit you in the face, causing you to squint a little and you raised your hand, trying to use it to shield your line of sight as a flimsy form of protection. 

“Come on, hurry up! My big sister’s working at the Paradise Faire and that means we can eat food at half price!” Circling on her brand new bike with the little horn and streamers, was your best friend, Amberle Carroll. 

“Really? I wanna a malt! And a burger with pickles, red and green peppers, and a side order of jumbo fries!” You jogged down the stone stairs, hopping off the last one, making quick work of getting your chain loose so that you could get on your own bike. 

“Ugh, you doing too much! I only got five dollars, dang.” 

“So? I bought you that big slice of cake last time and you ain’t even eat it! That cost seven dollars!”

Pedaling side by side, sometimes y’all would try to outdo each other by popping wheelies or hopping over ‘obstacles’, like y’all were some type of extreme sport participants or somethin’. Currently, you were watching as said best friend couldn’t help but show off and try to be even more impressive by showing you the new trick that her cousin had shown her to do. 

“Come on, you don’t know how it go. I’m hungry!” You whined.

“You always hungry, wit’cho bottomless stomach.” Tilting her bike upwards so that the front wheel is high up in the air, she stuck out her tongue at you. “I know how it go, I just gotta remember…” 

Hearing the faint roar of an engine, you glance to the left, it feels like ice is coursing through your veins as you notice the out of control car coming in the same general direction where Amberle is loitering in the street. “Amberle! Get outta the way!”

“Wha?” Turning her head, she looks at you in confusion and you jerk your finger repeatedly in the direction of the oncoming car. She is trying to bring the bike with her and pedal out of the way and you scream to forget that bike, it’s not important–

 _CRASH_! A speeding car slammed straight into Ambele’s bike, pushing it forward and throwing her body into the air a few feet before she hit the unforgiving asphalt. 

“L-Le-Le?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, shaking and cracking. “Le-Le…LE-LE!” Running over to where she’d fallen, tears are running down your cheeks and making your vision blurry. Even with you desperately blinking your eyes, more and more tears flooded down your face. Your hands reach out but you hesitate from actually touching anywhere. 

It’s bad,  _so bad_ , and you don’t want to accidentally hurt her more. 

And then a miracle happens. “Y/N?” Blinking sluggishly, she looked up at you, or tried. Her eyes were kind of out of focus. “Owww…My leg. I can’t feel my leg.” You could hear the beginnings of panic in her voice. “Is it broken? Can you look?”

You didn’t want to but you looked, briefly. Her leg is twisted in an unnatural angle and you feel your lunch threatening to come up. Swallowing several times, you sternly tell yourself to keep it together. “…Yea, but don’t worry ‘bout it, ‘kay? Stay right here. I’m gonna get h–” 

The car door is roughly thrown open. 

At first you only see the person’s leg, covered in black pants and a muddy black boot. Then the individual got out of the car completely and it’s… It’s a man, easily dwarfing you and Amberle in size and sheer muscle mass, his silhouette blocking out the sun. His skin is tan and his hair cut short in a buzzcut, a tattoo  nearly covering the whole right side of his face.

Something in your chest just knows, just knows that this man is bad, he’s dangerous. 

“Do you gotta phone, m–” 

Your hand clamps over her mouth to get her to shut up, but it’s too late. The man pulls out a gun, an actual real gun, something that you’d only seen on TV, and you hear a loud noise, like a, like a ‘BANG!’, it’s so loud.  **IT’S SO LOUD**. You open your eyes after a few seconds, having not realized that you’d squeezed them shut, and your hands touch your chest, looking, feeling, for a wound, for blood. 

But you’re okay. But you’re okay.

So…So…

Your head turns slowly and you see Amberle, but she’s…Oh….

 **OH, NO**. 

No, no, no no no. Nooo.

You can’t breath, can’t breathe, can’t breathe. And you think you peed your pants. You’re shaking, trembling, crying. Words come tumbling out of your mouth faster and faster, practically tripping over each other, a jumbled up mess as that gun is turned on you now.

“Iwontpleasedon’tmamanononopleased–”

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, jerking you onto your feet. Your screaming begins anew, louder and with higher pitch. No one’s coming to the rescue though and you know that depressing truth deep in your bones. You try to drag your feet, get him to stop but he’s bigger, stronger. He just keeps dragging you right along, further and further from Le-Le’s body, ignoring how you kicked and screamed, putting up a fight the whole time. Once you’re about two feet away, he jerked you to a stop, shaking you roughly by the shoulder until you went silent. 

Then he speaks. 

“Start running.” You stared up at him, trembling and wide eyed. He looked down at you with those cold eyes, malicious amusement coated his tone, “Start running and I’ll count to five. If you make it past that pole,” And he pointed at the said spot in question. “You make it there, I won’t kill you.”

He doesn’t need to explain what happens if you don’t make it to the pole. 

As soon as he lets you go, you try to dart towards a building but he anticipated the movement, grabbed the back of your shirt and threw you forward. You skinned your knees and hands but scrambled up as you heard little ‘ping, ping!’ sounds hit the asphalt near your feet and far too close for comfort. Lungs burning with the need for oxygen, blood trickling warmly down your pant leg, still you push yourself faster. Faster, faster. He’s right behind you, right behind you. 

Chasing you. Hunting you. 

Briefly, your mind flashes to the history lesson about how slave owners used dogs to sniff out runaway slaves and this feels all too similar. 

The pole is right there. You’re almost home free!

 _BANG_!

And then, it feels like fire has spread throughout your leg and shoulder. You stumble then fall. The pole is right there, you can make it, you can make it. Dragging your body forward, you are desperately trying to reach out and touch the pole and then the sun is blocked by the Hunter’s silhouette once again. He’s staring down at you with pride and smug apathy. This is a killer who lived for the chase and you had complied so beautifully for him. 

You close your eyes and think of your mama and daddy and brother–


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @Zayabel-Draga

“Did y’all see that ice on bookie’s ring finger?” Those are the first words out your mouth as soon as the limo car door closes. “‘Cos y’all coulda told me. I thought ole girl was ‘bout to whoop my ass for touching her man.” 

Yalana kissed her teeth. “We tried to signal you but you was already touching the dude so it ain’t our fault.” She defended herself. “Ion think they married just yet though. Engaged, maybe. Definitely Bonded.”

“People freshly Bonded always a bit more sensitive and territorial.” Simone agreed, typing away on her cellphone. “Separation is horrible, you don’t want nobody touching yo boo or for yo boo to touch anybody but you.” Putting the phone away in her breast pocket, she crooked her finger, “Speaking of which, c’mere, sexy. I missed you.”

“Seriously? That’s what we on?” You half complain as Yalana complied easily, crawling over the seats to go sit in her girlfriend’s lap. “Soft porn in the back of the limo like a bunch of horny teenagers on the way to prom?”

“Mmhm.” Simone was more preoccupied with kissing to really pay attention and Yalana didn’t care either way. 

Rolling your eyes, you tapped the partition, “Driver, speed up, if you can,” and you retrieve your cellphone from the clutch that you’re carrying. Entering the code to unlock the screen and the additional security code to keep nosy ex (and present) lovers out ya business, seconds later, the phone’s version of Twitter is available for your viewing. 

Naturally, you check out what’s going on your timeline first. 

  
  
  


‘It’s always some foolishness wit that ratchet ho.’ 

The one time you really turnt up on Twitter in ‘15 was because Taylor Swift opened her big mouth and talked ignorant about how tri-soulbonds were dirty and a black person thing, obviously. And you schooled her ridiculous ass, citing the actual first account of a  **RECORDED** tri-soulbonded trio in America happened to be a white married couple, Gwendolyn and Beau and the daughter of their neighbor, Cynthia, during the year of 1957. The couple never officially acknowledged or pursued Cynthia, but when the latter published the book,  _I Will Not Be Silent_ , in 1982, the horrific truth about her experiences with people who were supposed to be her other halves rocked the nation. 

We talking some next level, hunt the witch, let the devil testify crazy shit this couple did to this poor girl, starting from sixteen on up. Sixteen! Things were different back then, people expected to grow up faster and such but still, the first time you’d read that book, you threw up after reading only a chapter and a half. You’d forced yourself to read until the end and cried like a baby at the final sentence.

> **AM I NOT A HUMAN BEING, WITH THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS OF MY OWN? DO I NOT DESERVE RECOGNITION AND RESPECT? OR AM I TO FOREVER BE THE THING THAT YOU CALL EVIL AND REVILE?**

Although Cynthia hadn’t been aiming for publicity and only wanted to shed some light on her experiences, to let people know that it was not okay to do that to another human being under any circumstances, regardless of whether they were your soulmate or not, while some folks sympathized with her, there were of course people that went for the jugular. The Ronald Reagan Administration certainly spared no quarter in trying to shut that down asap. 

Religious organizations and figures were demonizing her and citing her birth as unnatural. People were sending death threats and vandalized her home more than once, luckily she’d not been there during those times. 

However, during this time of controversy, the very first TSPAA, or Tri-soulbond Special Protection Anonymous Association, an organization designed to protect people born as a part of a tri-soulbond, is created in the year 1989. It lasted for a year and half before being forced to close down due to lack of funds and members. Only to reopen in the late ‘90′s under the name SPAA, though even then, still not a lot of people dared to reveal that they had more than one soulmate, because if they did…

Your hand absently drifted to the bullet scar hidden beneath the strap of your dress, eyes dark as you got lost in memory. 

> **AM I NOT A HUMAN BEING WITH THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS OF MY OWN?**

Being silent had never worked out in your kind’s favor. It just gave the monsters hiding in the dark ammunition to hurt and hunt you even more. They wanted you all corralled in one space so that they could gape at you like animals in a zoo, or to dissect you or to torture and/or perform disgusting sexual acts with you.

Those in a tri-soulbond that lived in America were doomed. 

“Ma’am, we’re here.” 

Blinking, you glanced out the tinted windows of the world leaders’ conference took place, seeing reporters congregate around the limo. No doubt thinking you were also a political figure of importance. You were going to make some paps big mad when you got out this vehicle, a thought which made you smile. 

You for sure wasn’t no Cynthia. You wasn’t white, didn’t start off wealthy and you weren’t meek, to be stepped over. And although you’d likely been sent the invite to add some hilarity to a potentially tense situation with all these foreign entities in attendance, you were not going to let this opportunity slip through your fingertips. It was the time to be loud and brave, to make people hear you, not just on the television show, Timeless Everyday, and radio broadcasts, but to an actual audience that had the power to actively do something. 

“Take these two back to the hotel.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Is you sure you gon be alright doing this?” Simone asked, faint concern audible in her voice. “We can just eat hotel food together and watch Empire or somethin’. You ain’t gotta do this.” Yalana added. 

Hand on the knob, you glance back at them and smiled, “I got this.” 

Less than an hour at this event after reconnecting with faces and people you hadn’t seen since you were a pre-teen, and apparently the universe had been listening to your bold declaration. Listening but wanting to shit all over you because the greatest and worst thing happened to you.

You stared into the eyes of the King of Wakanda, King T’Challa, and realized that he is one of your soulmates. And as you straightened up after nearly face planting and making an embarrassment of yourself, when you backed away, eyes darting around anxiously, looking for an exit, your eyes are again arrested by his female companion, a pretty, dark skinned woman in a lovely yellow dress, make up flawless and on point. 

They made a striking pair. They were yours. …Oh, fuck. Oh fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

On the verge of a panic attack, you barely register that the royal had moved until suddenly the scent of his cologne, expensive and earthy, complimenting his natural scent, wafts up to your nose. Blinking, you belatedly realize that he’s hugging you to his chest, murmuring in a soft baritone, “Breathe with me, entle. That’s it. Juuust like that,” listening to how his accent turned the words into something almost of a musical quality. “One more time for me, hmm? Big breath in…” he demonstrated. Waiting patiently until you copied him. “Then out.” 

You let the breath you’d been holding out. 

Heart rate steadily returning and falling into rhythm with his. For a second, you enjoy this moment of safety, of protection and warmth, before you realize again who’s embracing you and make an aborted motion to pull away. Only the king doesn’t immediately release you. You’re about to panic all over again, because oh God, how could you fight this guy off? Only someone else is speaking now, except not in English and you crane your neck, seeing that it’s your other soulmate. 

…Man, did you really want to know her name. 

This woman is fierce and she’s clearly scolding the king, dark brown eyes lit up with righteous indignation on your behalf, and ain’t that a trip? But whatever she’s saying clearly works because King T’Challa releases you without issue, looking suitably chastised and repentant. 

Not that you trust that expression, or even him, right now. And you move out of touching distance as soon as you can. 

“S-” When he notices that you’re watching his hands warily, he folds them into his lap. “ _I am sorry_. I did not mean to…You were in distress, and that made  _me_ distressed, but that is not an excuse for my lapse in control.” King T’Challa apologized. “That will not happen again. I swear it. What do you need me to do? Do you need me to do somethi–”

The woman interjected, “T’Challa. Shh.” 

His mouth clamped shut and his eyes are bright, as if he were about to cry. Your heart constricted in pain for him and you almost want to comfort him but it’s too soon, you’re afraid that he’ll try and… 

A warm hand cups your cheek, a gentle but firm pressure, and you’re directed to look at your other soulmate. “…My name is Nakia, and that overprotective fool you just met is T’Challa, our soulmate. He made a mistake but you don’t have to forgive him.” He makes a tiny sound and you try to look but her hand is still on you. “You don’t have to forgive him for startling you until you’re ready to.”

“I don’t?” The words slip out without conscious permission and you want to curse yourself. Something shadowy flits across Nakia’s face just then, there and gone in an instant. 

“No.” It’s a simple word but profound, absolute. “This is not Wakanda and while he may be a king, he has no power here.” 

Those are the exact words you’d needed to hear. You unclench from your hunched position, letting Nakia continue to hold your hand in her lap, dark eyes watching you calmly. “…I’m…” You breathe in slowly and then let it out. “I’m Y/N.”

Nakia says your name in a wondering tone, getting down the right way that it’s pronounced and when you nod to say that yes, she’s saying it correctly, she surprises you even more by raising your hand to her lips and presses a kiss to the back of it.

Oh. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. 

You wonder if you’re swooning like one of those white heroines in a trashy romance novel? Who cares! This is a momentous occasion. This is how…this is how… Glancing to where King T’Challa is sitting, you see that he’s watching the two of you with a complicated expression but the most prevalent emotion is joy, relief. He didn’t care that he’d essentially been put on time out, his only happiness is that you and Nakia are getting along. Biting the inside of your cheek gently, you glance back to Nakia but she merely stares back at you evenly, and then you look back at the king. 

‘Gut, don’t fail me now.’ Your instincts had saved you many times and rarely steered you wrong, plus with what Nakia had just told you minutes before… Jerking your head, you wordlessly tell T’Challa to come closer. 

His dark eyes light up with hope, slight anxiety, before becoming resolute as he comes to sit by you. He’s careful as he enters your space, not moving too fast and unwilling to frighten you again. 

It’s  _you_ who reaches out and takes his hand, twining fingers with his. 

And a feeling of peace envelopes the three of you.

You take back what you’d thought before. This? This is how you imagined the first meeting with your soulmates would go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows kiss and throws up the peace sign*
> 
> LATIN TO ENGLISH
> 
> Mors ad omnes abominationes tuas.
> 
> “Death to all abominations!”

**JUNE 12, 1991  
OAKLAND POLICE DEPARTMENT**

“It’s your fault that she died you know.” 

Knees pulled up to your chest, arms around your legs, you’re grateful that a female officer had taken pity on you and brought some spare shorts to wear. You didn’t know what she’d done with the soiled garments and didn’t care to ask. 

Right now, you’re not in any position to be asking questions anyway.

The cops had arrived ten minutes too late to the neighborhood after getting an anonymous tip that someone was firing multiple rounds. They hadn’t listened to your explanations that it wasn’t you, that you weren’t part of any gang or on drugs. Instead, they’d hauled you into a cell and locked you in. 

You had only one cellmate around your age and she’s annoying you.

“Did you shoot that girl in the forehead like I heard?”

Other than the minute tightening of your clasped hands around your knees, you didn’t speak. Didn’t outwardly reacting to the baiting statements and comments. 

“The cops think that you did it. Turned the gun on your friend as part of a gang initiation right, or something.” The lack of response didn’t seem to affect the other girl. “My dad says…” For a long stretch, she paused. “He  _said_ , we can’t trust the cops. Cops have agendas, they’re not working to better the community, they just want to lock us in altogether, and–”

Unable to stand listening to this girl’s voice any longer, you interrupt, “It sounds like your dad’s paranoid.” 

“…What?”

“I said,” Lifting your head, you look directly at the girl for the first time. Short, fair skinned, a bit chubby, with light, curly hair, the exact color of her hair difficult to get a ping on, it was not exactly brown, maybe brownish red, and her eyebrows were a bit thick, her lips a bit wide. Overall, she’s pretty, but, “Your dad’s paranoid. Looks like he made you like him, too. ‘Cos you sound crazy.” 

The crazy girl let out this growling sound and you rested your chin on top of your knees, intent on ignoring her again. “Don’t call me crazy!”

“You the queen of crazies.” 

“Shut up!”

“Does it hurt to be called ‘crazy’? To listen to people talk about things they don’t know and spread lies?” You pause, waiting for a response but there isn’t any. “ **GOOD**.” 

“Call me crazy one more t–”

The door opened and an officer entered the holding cells. “Both of you quiet down! Now!” Mouth clamping shut instantly, you try to remain as small and unnoticeable as possible, but you take note of the fact that he’s dragging another kid behind him, he’s younger than you, maybe by a year or two, and– 

You flinched minutely when the cell door is opened and the boy is shoved in roughly, he hits the ground, potentially scraping his knees, but not a word leaves his lips and he just lays there. 

“Y/N Y/L/N, get up.” You’re moving a bit too slow for him because he’s grabbing you by the upper shoulder, forcing you to do a bit of a frog march in order to keep up with his stride after he drags you out of the cell. 

“Where is she going, where are you taking her?” The strange girl asks, but her question goes unanswered as he pulls open the door and walks out first, dragging you behind him. “Hey, I’m talking to y–”

The door closes. 

“Where am I going? Are my parents here?” You ask, but again, the officer ignores you, still dragging you along as he walks. “Officer, please tell me what’s going o–”

“Keep your mouth shut and this will go a bit easier.” 

Heart sinking down to the soles of your shoes, at the end of the hallway, you can see two men, Caucasian, with familiar tattoos on their necks. You dig your heels in and open your mouth to scream.

**PRESENT DAY  
VIENNA, AUSTRIA**

“Is everything alright?”

Blinking, you glance to the right to see one of the most powerful men in the world ( _one of your soulmates, he’s yours, he’s yours_ ) is looking directly at you, concern clear in his countenance, if not immediately detectable on his face. 

‘Oh, it’s just great. I’m sitting in the back of an embassy limo with an actual king and his possible lover and/or wife, and I know the minute we step out, when  _I_  step out of this car, it’s going to be all over Twitter and every other form of social media. Why wouldn’t I be alright?’ Instead of saying what you’re thinking, you give your best camera ready smile, “Everything’s fine.” 

T’Challa doesn’t look convinced and is about to say something but Nakia speaks first. “I noticed that your bodyguards are very protective of you.”

Unbidden, a small smile quirks your lips upward, then you cough into your fist as you notice that Nakia is watching you intently. “Sharif and Jasmine have been with me a long time. Since before I became well known, actually, so, it’s only natural that they would feel protective.” 

“They don’t trust you in the care of anyone.” Nakia remarks, her observation spot on and disconcerting. “Not even your soulmates.” 

Smoothing a hand over the hem of your attire, you carefully avoid eye contact with either of them. “Paranoia is a trait that runs deep in Jasmine’s blood and something that she passed onto Sharif to a lesser extent.” Statistics show that tri-soulmate bonds in the USA have 67% higher chance of abuse and manipulation between Unbonded and Bonded pairs than anywhere else in the world.  

“It’s nothing personal.” 

The vehicle slowed and then pulled to a stop. Glancing out the tinted windows, you make out a fancy restaurant and note that someone is already on deck to greet them, or rather the king, more than likely. So far, you don’t see any paparazzo, so maybe, just potentially, things would be alright. 

“Ladies, shall we?”

Calling on every ounce of mental fortitude that you had, breathing in deep, you square your shoulders and when you step out of the limo, accepting a hand each from T’Challa and Nakia, you look calm and in control, as if you belong. 

If anyone had a word to say negative about you or your political views, they said nothing, could barely maintain eye contact as they felt unworthy to be in your presence as the three of you, T’Challa, Nakia, and yourself, walked through the doors of the restaurant. Treated with utmost respect, the head maitre’d, a man in his late fifties wearing white gloves offer to take the King’s jacket, nodding with acceptance when he’s refused. 

T’Challa requests a private table and soon the three of you are shown to an area sequestered away from most of the other diners, subtle but intimate. Wine is poured in each glass, appetizers placed on the center of the table, and then the waiter gives a half bow, promising to return when everyone has their order. 

“I must admit that I am curious, no, I have been in dire need to know since I was a boy.” 

Eyebrows raising, you pause in the perusal of the menu, giving T’Challa your full attention. He sounded so serious about it. 

“What is your favorite color?”

Nakia let out a quiet laugh and then you took note of the barely noticeable spark of mischief in the king’s eyes, but also curiosity. He honestly wanted to know but he also wanted you to feel more at ease with the atmosphere. 

Talk about perceptive.

Lips twitching into a half smile, you cock your head, pretending to think about it. “[Favorite color]. I used to think orange and white was amazing though as a seamstress, I can see the potential in all shades with the right model, yet I’m also starting to think yellow and black is underrated but perfect.” 

Whoops, there you went, accidentally flirting a little.  ~~But was it really an accident, your conscious whispered.~~

And just like that, the bubble of awkward burst, only to wrack up to eleven with an entirely different kind of tension. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how one looked at it, the waiter came back and you’re the first to place your order. The rest of this outing continued with T’Challa and Nakia playing it safe, mostly, while you relaxed even more with a bit of food and drink in your system. 

Then somehow, inevitably, conversation went to the elephant in the room. 

The soulmate bond. 

You’d have thought that they’d already Bonded but T’Challa refuted that, saying that partial Bondings tended to cause even more friction between tri-soulmates and a long time ago, Nakia and he agreed to wait until they’d met you.

“I still think y’all shoulda Bonded. It must be uncomfortable, being in close proximity for so many years but lacking that type of…” You pause, searching for the correct term. “Deeper intimacy?” You shrug. “I don’t think I would have the restraint if I were in y’all shoes.” 

“Yes, in some ways, it’s…difficult but not unbearable.” Nakia acknowledged. “More than lovers and part of tri-soulbond, T’Challa and I are a team, we’re partners. We strive to listen to each other and provide what the other needs.”

Still, you shook your head, “It just seems like time wasted. I travel a lot. I’m gone in a different state or country more often than I am actually in the US. That would be putting an entirely different type of strain on y’all.” 

“Ayy, and you do not think you are worth the effort to know?” T'Challa asked, genuinely interested in knowing your answer.

“Oh, I’m an absolute fucking de-light but I don’t do relationships.” You look him up then down. “Not even for kings and, are you his queen?” You glance at Nakia, trying to keep your face straight. You’d had your hands on her, felt her wetness. Wondered how she’d taste. ‘Stop it.’

“Not his Queen, no.” Nakia picked up her drink, took a sip.

“Trouble in paradise?” Brows furrowing, you try to understand what’s the catch. “Wanna spice up the declining relationship with a menage a trois?”

“Of all the Americans I’ve met, only you spoke about tri-soulbonds as not something just purely sexual. Why are you trying to change up your views on it now, when discussing it with us?” T'Challa gently pointed out. “If you would prefer a platonic relationship, a friendship…”

“We’re amicable to that as well.” Nakia finished his thought for him. “We just want you. That’s all.”

Before you could come up with an answer, your cellphone vibrated, alerting you of a text message. Apologizing for the rudeness but you really, really needed to check this, you breathe an internal sigh of relief when they don’t make a fuss and gesture for you to go on ahead. 

Unlocking the screen of your phone, you read the message.

Glancing up, you see that the fierce bald lady, Okoye, is whispering something in a far too low voice in T’Challa’s ear. Whatever she’s saying must have been serious because he raised a finger, signalling for the waiter and said something quickly in his native tongue to Nakia. 

“We need to go, now.” 

You’re in no position to refuse her, not when she’s speaking in that serious, no-bullshit tone and you raise up from your seat, reaching out to take her hand. But something, a prickle of unease, a sense of awareness long since stomped into you in order to avoid dangerous situations… 

It flares to life.

Jerking her wrist, you tug her forward as you take note of the passing waitress behind her seat that drops the tray of food she’d been carrying and pulls out a pistol, took aim… 

You hit the ground, arm around Nakia just as she fired. 

Pandemonium ensues as the patrons collectively lose their shit, running for the exits. Nakia stared down at you, a complicated expression on her face, fear is the prominent emotion. Not for herself, though, curiously enough. “Are you okay? Did you get hit?”

“I’m fine.” You promise. 

“Nakia! Y/N!” And then you could hear T’Challa’s voice. He didn’t sound very calm or unshakable as he’d been all throughout the day, he sounded on the verge of a major freak out. 

Nakia helps you to your feet and T’Challa? Well, he’s kicking the asses of two men and a woman. You could almost, almost feel sorry for them as you heard something break, but well, they started this mess. Okoye is also holding her own against a whole group of people, it’s kind of admirable. 

“I told you to get out of the building. I told you–! God, you never listen.” An albino woman in her mid to late twenties, a bruise near her eye but overall fine, scolded you heavily, breaking the arm of the nearest faux waiter that stepped into her space. 

“Yell at each other later!” Nakia picks up a plate and used it almost like a frisbee sort of, hitting a charging male in the face, getting him to stop right next to T’Challa who seamlessly whooped his ass too, flinging him over the ledge. “I want to know who these people are and if they’re targeting T’Challa, then why.”

“They’re not after T’Challa.” You say faintly, having noticed that all too familiar tattoo on a down faux waitress’ hand. 

“What, then who–” Suddenly it dawned on Nakia as she stared at you. 

“Oh. My. God.” 

Turning your head, you see that a big fella carrying a…

‘Is that a rocket launcher?!’

“Mors ad omnes abominationes tuas!” The man cries, finger on the trigger. 

“Everybody get down!” T’Challa orders, his voice a shout and commanding, so much so that your body is obeying without conscious thought. Still, you catch a glimpse of him, but he’s covered head to toe in a strange type of…cat suit? And charging right at the guy. Panic reverberates through your body, but it’s not just you, it’s Nakia’s too, as the bond opens up just a tad and you think that you’re choking on fear and you think that you –

**Author's Note:**

> *exhales*


End file.
